


Interpretations

by sparxwrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art School, Nude Modeling, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:20:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it’s Sam’s first time as a nude model, and Lucifer is the guest speaker artist at the art class he’s modelling for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interpretations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maydei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/gifts).



> Birthday present for maydei/iamlucifersfury. Crossposted from tumblr.

It had seemed like a good idea when he’d first come up with it; quick, easy money. Sit around for an hour or so, get stared at, collect his very reasonable paycheque, and leave. Nothing to it.

Now he’s actually here, though, it’s a little bit different.

“Having second thoughts?” asks the art professor who’d shown him in – Jess, she’d introduced herself as, with blue eyes and an easy smile. She’s got her back to him at the moment, though, giving him the illusion of privacy. It seems a little pointless, considering she’s going to turn around the moment he actually manages to get his clothes off as opposed to just fumbling numbly with his belt buckle. But he appreciates the thought.

“Not quite,” he tells the curtain of blonde, curly hair he can see in lieu of a face, the anxious chuckle tacked on the end belying the bravado in his voice. “Just, uh- it’s all kinda new.”

He manages to undo his belt, button, zipper, and his jeans hit the floor with a solid  _thunk_ , boxers piling on top of them a second later. For a moment, he fiddles with the buttons on his plaid over-shirt, before giving up and just pulling it over his head along with his under-shirt. He’s left standing naked in the middle of the empty studio, goosebumps crawling over his skin from the slight cool of the air.

Bending to pick up his jeans and boxers, he screws his clothes into a ball of cloth in his hands – and then has to resist the urge to hold the parcel in front of his groin when Jess turns around. “Uh,” he says, intensely aware of his nakedness and the scarlet blush sweeping across his cheeks as he gestures vaguely with the clothes in his hand, “where…?”

Jess grins at him for a moment, eyes sliding over the heavily defined muscles in his chest, the broad sweep of his shoulders, the slight narrowing of his hips, the dark hair brushed across his legs – there’s nothing sexual in her gaze, just the curious appreciation of an artist evaluating a new form. “You’re going to be fantastic for today’s session,” she tells him, and Sam admires the way she manages to keep her eyes on his face as she talks.

He’s not sure he’d be able to do the same if their positions were reversed.

“Come with me,” she says, turning her back on him and heading over to a corner of the studio, where there’s a small box set up, a little like a changing room. “Usually, you’d change in here, put on a dressing gown, and then take it off when you’re up in front of everyone,” she explains, pulling back the curtain and gesturing for him to put his clothes on a small shelf at the back. He relinquishes them reluctantly, clinging to the last remnants of having something to shield himself from the intense vulnerability being naked brings. “But the pose for today is quite complicated, so that wasn’t really going to work. I’m afraid we’ve rather thrown you in at the deep end.”

Her smile is apologetic, sincerity in those clear eyes, and Sam finds himself put at ease by it. “Make it easier next time, I guess,” he says, laughing a little, and the joke falls flat but Jess doesn’t call him out on it, something he’s grateful for.  
“At least you’re considering a next time!” Jess’s laugh is high and bright as she guides him over to the center of the studio.

There’s a slightly-raised dais there, in the middle of a semicircle of chairs – fifteen or so, Sam thinks at a glance, not bothering to count them. An elaborate scene has been set up on it, of which he is to be the centrepiece. There’s a wide, blocky chair sat there, all hard wood and right-angles, and Sam can’t help but think sitting on that for an hour is going to be uncomfortable, even with the slightly flattened cushion that’s been placed on the seat of it. With the purple cushion, and the thick swathe of fabric that’s been draped over the back and one arm of it, twisted to throw interesting shadows and shapes onto the plain wood of the chair, it looks almost like a throne.

“We’re doing things a little differently today because we’ve got an artist in from the local community,” explains Jess, gesturing for him to sit down on the chair-throne. “Nick Milton? You might have heard of him. He does exhibits under the name of Lucifer. He’s quite well-known, actually, favours mythology – Christian, mainly – as his subject matter. Likes making commentaries on power and authority.”

Sam’s suspicions were correct – the chair is not hugely comfortable. “Can’t say I’ve heard of him,” he says almost apologetically, settling himself on the cushion with his legs together and hands resting on his thighs; a nice, neutral pose considering he’s not really sure what he’s supposed to be doing.

“Well, you have now. He’s been talking to the students, about using emotion and storylines to influence the composition and style of artwork, they should be heading over here now from one of the lecture theatres.”

She moves forward, catches his arm (the first time she’s touched him since his clothes came off) and pulls it so it’s resting on one armrest, fingers curled over the end of it. His other arm gets draped lazily over the other arm rest, fingertips dangling towards the floor.

“I have to warn you, though – he might talk while the students are drawing. Like, narrate it, kind of. It’s… it can be quite intense. We usually have silence, or some quiet music, when we’re working, but Mr. Milton likes to talk about the subject, encourage analysis, that kind of thing. If you’ve never been used as a model before, it can be a bit intimidating – if it’s too much, just tell me.” Jess smiles at him again as she nudges a plain white box under his feet and then carefully pries his knees apart in a movement that’s edging into uncomfortably familiar. “I don’t want to scare you or anything.”

Sam’s left sprawled lazily across the throne-slash-chair, dominating the scene, expansive and completely exposed. Oddly enough, it’s not unpleasant as he’d expected it to be. “It takes a lot to scare me,” he says, offering up the first proper grin since entering the studio. “Honest.”

Looking unconvinced, Jess raises an eyebrow, but is cut off from arguing with him by the opening of a door somewhere out of Sam’s line of vision and a sudden flood of talking students entering the room. The noise, after the almost subdued quiet of the room before, is something of a shock, and by the time Sam pulls back to himself there’s half a dozen people sitting in front of him and staring at his naked body and he’s entirely too surprised to be self-conscious.

“No, no,” says a soft, authoritative voice from somewhere behind Sam – that, despite being quiet, seems to fill and dominate the whole room – as the last few people filter in. “That’s not what I’m saying. Of course technical skill is important. If you can’t accurately capture your scene, then you’re not going to be able to convey what you want. But, if you can’t  _choose_  what to convey as well – if you can’t decide on a story you want to tell, an emotion you want to encapsulate,  _something_  you want to offer up to your viewer – then you may as well take a photograph.”

A man walks into Sam’s peripheral vision, head dipped a little to talk to a short, dark-haired girl in a leather jacket and converses. “The trick to art is not to see clearly, but to make other people see what you see clearly. Do you understand?” There’s a smile on his face, as if he’s sharing a joke with her that no one else understands, and she nods once, before hurrying over to take her place in the rapidly-filling semicircle of chairs.

At which point, the man looks up, and Sam remembers to be self-conscious.

He must be Lucifer. Has to be. There’s such an aura of confidence, of authority about him, that even though he’s nothing special – frayed jeans, paint-spattered t-shirt and crumpled, unbuttoned shirt over the top – there’s no way he can’t be the one who’s just led the students in their lecture. His hair’s a mess (Sam’s pretty sure there’s paint in it), and he doesn’t look like he’s shaved any time recently, but his eyes… They’re a shade of blue Sam once saw in a picture of the trail of a comet. Ice-blue, cold and sharp, so pale they have an almost silvery-white quality to them.

And they’re looking right at him. At his body. Which is currently naked.

He tries really hard not to curl in on himself and shield his more vulnerable parts from view, and only just manages it.

Lucifer’s lips curl into a smile – not mocking, just… amused. “He’s new, isn’t he?” he asks Jess, wandering over to where she’s sat behind her desk and leaning a hip against it as the students fumble in their bags for sketchbooks and pencils and charcoal. Jess nods, not looking up from her marking, but a pleased look edges its way onto her face. She was right; Sam is perfect for this.

“How did you know?” asks Sam over the hubbub, turning his head a little so he can look Lucifer in the eye, which seems to make the embarrassment easier. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to talk, supposed to move at all, but neither Jess nor Lucifer reprimand him, so he supposes he’s not done too badly.

Lucifer smiles, pushing off the desk and- well,  _prowling_  seems the only word for it, towards Sam, eyes appraising. “Something about the way you hold yourself,” he says, stopping by the chair nearest to Sam and raising an eyebrow. “The set of your shoulders, the determination in-” He seems to catch himself, lips twisting up into a wry smile. “Ah, but I’ll put ideas in all your heads, won’t I?” He says to the class, to a small murmur of laughter. “Which is exactly what I  _don’t_ want to do. I want to see what you all come up with of your own free will.”

Just like that, he’s all business, back straight and hands clasped behind him, striding up and down in front of the desks with barely a glance at Sam. “But, then again, a little brainstorming never hurt anyone, so perhaps…” He pauses, and turns to a girl sitting in the second row, dark-haired and dressed in red, and Sam realises with a swooping jolt she’s Ruby, a drunken one-night-stand from a few months ago, and prays she doesn’t remember him.

If her smirk when she meets his eyes is anything to go by, she does.

“You,” says Lucifer, who doesn’t comment on the interaction, if he notices it at all. “Look at him. What do you see?”  
“I…” Ruby seems a little lost, a frown creasing her brow as she looks at Lucifer with no small amount of confusion.  
“A story,” sighs Lucifer, impatience in his voice, “tell me a story, tell me what _you_  see when you look at him, the things  _only_  you see. I don’t want a physical description, I have eyes, I know what he looks like. I want to know your take on him.”

Ruby pauses, eyeing Sam for a moment, the tip of her tongue trailing over her lower lip. “Power,” she says eventually, an undertone to her thoughtful voice that Lucifer picks up on, raises an eyebrow at in an invitation to continue. “The chair- it’s a throne. That’s obvious from the way he sits in it, casual, like he owns it, like he’s… like he’s surveying his subjects. The open legs, that’s a vulnerability, which means he’s confident enough that no one’s going to challenge him to make himself weak…”

“Good.” Lucifer nods his head, is already moving on. “That’s a good story to tell, the king – boy king,” he corrects, with a smile at Sam and his barely-out-of-teens body, earning a few giggles from the audience. “Sat on his throne, strong, powerful, young… invincible. How did he get there? Did he claim it as his birth right, did he take it by blood, did he win it by the will of the people? Expand your story,  _understand_  it, know your own mind. Take control of your creation. Bold strokes, thick lines, emphasise the contrast, the drama, the  _cruelty_  – if that’s what your story says, remember, there’s no one right way to draw a piece – use purple for a king, red for blood and youth, gold for riches, decide on your story and your colour scheme will follow.”

The fast-paced rattling off of words is dizzying, overwhelming, and Sam can see some of the students looking a little wide-eyed and nervous as they try to absorb it all, remember it, come up with their own stories should Lucifer pick on him. Sam doesn’t blame them. He’s not even a student, doesn’t even need to worry about taking in all of this information, and it’s making him anxious all the same.

Sam thinks he understands, now, what Jess meant when she said Lucifer could be a little intimidating. This scrutiny, this unwinding of his self and the reflection back of it from other people’s eyes, is certainly intense.

“You.” The target’s a boy, this time, in the front row, hoodie pulled high over his head and eyes glittering in the darkness cast by it. “Story.”

“Vulnerability.” The teen’s voice has an oddly sibilant edge to it, almost  _hungry_ , and it’s creepy. Sam’s nerves sing, and he has to fight to keep from tensing up a little. If Lucifer intends to keep this up the whole time, he’s not sure he’s going to be able to sit still for an hour. “The cloth, the open legs, the sprawl… he’s designed to look appealing, open, desirable. He’s being offered up, a gift. But determination, the shoulders, the fingers curled around the edge… He _needs_  to do this. Wants to.”

Lucifer nods, again, a more thoughtful look on his face as his eyes drag over Sam again – a less obvious interpretation, this time, apparently. “Yes, yes, the martyr. The offering, the sacrifice… Very good. I like it. Soft edges, smudging, emphasising the ephemeral nature of it, the lack of control he has, making him look gentle and pleasing – maybe something hard around the eyes, for the determination, pale colours, again purple for a king, maybe green for new beginnings, red for death…? Is he a gift, is he a sacrifice? What do you think?”

Another student, again in the front row, again a boy – no hoodie, this time, just a shirt and golden-brown eyes that seem almost yellow in the sunlight streaming through the window. He eyes Sam for a moment, unconcerned, and then says, “Teenager.”

There’s a ripple of laughter from the class, and Sam flushes a little bit, although he knows they’re not laughing at him. Lucifer frowns, a little irritated, only for the boy to continue, “No, look at him. All slumped in his chair, kinda moody-looking, kinda anxious… the emphasis on the physical form, on the muscles, the masculinity almost  _over_  emphasised-” A pointed glance at Sam’s groin and the flush grows hotter, why the hell did he ever think this was a good idea? “-he looks like every high school jock ever.”

Lucifer’s mild scowl turns thoughtful, and although thankfully his eyes don’t follow the student’s downwards, he does skim over Sam’s posture again, re-evaluating. “…Yes,” he says, eventually. “Yes, that could work. The human being, insecure, overcompensating, swaggering, young… determined their way is right, determined to fight against authority… You could make that work, thin, sketchy, the speed that children grow up now, but heavy, for arrogance, for determination, emphasis of the masculinity, of the physical, of the shallow and selfish and immediate, bright colours for youth and flare and flamboyance… Yes, I like that. A lot.”

The kid grins, accepts a surreptitious low-five from the girl in the seat next to him, before pulling his eyes back to the front – back to Lucifer – as he begins speaking again.

“You know what I see?” he says, and the class quietens instantly, the small giggles and pockets of conversation that had broken out dying away in favour of listening to the master artist speak. “I see a hunter.”

He holds up a hand to forestall the murmuring that breaks out at that, shaking his head. “No, hear me out. A hunter. Not the kind with a bow and arrow or a gun, but a man  _searching_  for something that he just can’t get. He’s powerful, strong, deadly, but… something’s  _missing._  He’s at the top of his food chain, if you will – he’s a  _predator_  – but it’s not what he wants. And, no matter how hard he searches, no matter how fierce or fast or powerful he is, he just can’t get that thing he’s looking for – maybe it’s the world that’s keeping him from it, maybe it’s another person, or other people. Maybe it’s himself. But he’s found himself forced into a role, and he doesn’t want to be there. He just wants to be free.”

There’s a silence as Lucifer finishes speaking, and Sam feels chills run down his spine. He’s not sure why. The sensation’s akin to someone walking over his grave, though, and he’s grateful when Lucifer claps his hands together and says, in a rush, “Emphasis on shadows for depression, hazy around the face for wistfulness and confusion, muted greens and browns for longing, maybe a little blue or red to accent, for hope. But! Enough about me. You don’t care about hearing  _my_  story, because you’ve all got one of your own, I should hope, and that’s the one I want to see on paper. Not mine.”

He looks over at the clock, squints a little, and then turns back to the class. “You’ve got about an hour left, so get on with it.” For a moment, nobody moves, and then he flaps a hand at them with a sharp, “Go!” and suddenly the classroom’s a flurry of movement as people grab pencils or charcoal or biros or erasers, chairs squeak as they settle into more comfortable positions, and desk legs scrape as they’re pushed about.

Lucifer keeps on talking through the entire hour or so, a little less now the students are working and concentrating, but still a background flow of quiet words that Sam, weirdly, enjoys. Once he gets over the strangeness of it, the awkwardness of having himself deconstructed and put back together again in a strangers eyes, it’s actually quite interesting – and the words at least help to fight the boredom that an hour sitting still with nothing terribly remarkable to look at would have otherwise brought. Occasionally another student’s asked to give their interpretation, sometimes Lucifer tries to guess a student’s story based on their artwork, but mostly it’s comments on colour and form and style.

There’s very few technical corrections, but then, from what Sam’s gathered, that’s the whole point. Lucifer doesn’t want technically perfect artwork, not now anyway; he’s more interested in making people think for themselves, making them question. Which is kind of cool.

Eventually, though, it’s over – the students are filing out with sketchbooks tucked under their arms, Lucifer holding the door open for them and dipping his head in acknowledgement of their thanks, and Jess is looking up from her marking and telling him he can go get his clothes on. He smiles gratefully at her (with probably no small amount of oh-my-god-how-did-I-survive-that in his eyes based on the amusement that flows briefly across her face) and slides off his throne, rolling his shoulders and stretching out the stiffness a little as we walks over to the small cubicle where his clothes are.

He pulls his boxers on first, and wonders when the last time he felt this grateful to be wearing underwear was. Probably never. He can’t quite believe he’s never realised how wonderful having a covering between the world and his dick is before, and pulling up his jeans only adds to the sense of relief that, yes, he is actually covered up, no more other college students ogling him thank you very much.

“You were exceptional today,” says a voice behind him, and Sam jumps, in the middle of buckling up his jeans, and drops his belt.

It’s Lucifer, leaning his hip against the wall – apparently a habit of his – and eyeing Sam with a curiosity more intense than any emotion Sam’s seen on his face so far. “Uh, thanks,” says Sam, smiling a little anxiously at him and catching the ends of his belt again to finish doing it up. “Not sure I did anything, but…”

“Exactly.” Lucifer smiles. “You did  _nothing_. You didn’t try to enforce a viewpoint, didn’t try to tell a story, you just let yourself be and allowed them to reflect what they wanted off of you. Emphasised it, in some cases, helped them see it more clearly… An unusual skill in a model, I’ve found. Too many of them are too concerned with making the artist see what they see – which, whilst admirable, is extraordinarily irritating when I am trying to create my own view.”

Sam’s not entirely sure he understands, but he nods anyway, pleased he seems to have done well on his first try. “Guess I’m a natural,” he jokes with a shrug of one shoulder as he lifts his arms over his head to slide his t-shirt on. Vision blocked by the fabric, he doesn’t notice the way Lucifer’s eyes trace the stretch-pull of his muscles as he moves before they’re obscured.

“I suppose you are.” There’s something slow, thoughtful in Lucifer’s voice, and then in the space of a blink there’s a business card being held out to Sam, thick cream paper with plain, unassuming typewriter type. Nothing fancy, just a name and a number. “If you feel like doing a little more modelling – on top of your work for this place, of course, something a little more… challenging, then contact me. I’d be very interested in working with you.”

Sam takes the card between his thumb and forefinger, peers at it curiously. The ridges of the paper feel odd beneath his thumb, and there’s something almost hypnotising about the neat, black  _Lucifer_  and the mobile number printed underneath. “Thank you,” he says eventually. “I’ll-”

When he looks up, the studio is empty, other than Jess sitting at her desk, still marking essays and sifting through portfolios. The business card is still heavy in his hand, though, so he’s at least  _relatively_  sure he didn’t dream the conversation he’s just had.

With a last, thoughtful look at the number, Sam slides the card into his pocket, says his thank-you’s to Jess, and leaves. He’d been about to say he’d think about it, before Lucifer left, but he knows that he doesn’t need to do that, not really. It’s almost inevitable he’ll say yes.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are curious, and didn’t find my description good enough, Sam’s pose on his ‘throne’ is similar to the seated man in [this beautiful piece](http://sparxflame.tumblr.com/post/44457703862/grumble-grumble-untitled-prepatory-sketch-by) \- and what I'd like to think Lucifer's drawing of him would look a little like.


End file.
